


Sherlock, In a Nutshell Shaped Suspiciously Like John's Heart

by Leah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Sherlock is a bit OOC just because I don't know how to convey his personality very well yet, it's kind of fluffy I guess, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leah/pseuds/Leah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes a leap of faith, and is pleasantly surprised in how it ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock, In a Nutshell Shaped Suspiciously Like John's Heart

Sherlock Holmes is prone to long silences, violent fits of discorded violin, and seemingly impossible periods of time without sleep or nourishment. John has often thought that phrase in relation to Sherlock; seemingly impossible. It’s seemingly impossible that Sherlock can deduce nearly anything he needs, or wants, to know in mere seconds; it’s seemingly impossible that Sherlock has lived this long, seeing as he constantly puts himself in ridiculous amounts of danger; it’s seemingly impossible that Sherlock could care so little. From an outsider’s view, that is. He is distant, cold, and has no tact, to the average bystander, but John knows that’s not true. 

Sherlock Holmes is the most tactful human being on this planet, knowing mostly when to play fair, when to fight dirty. He knows who to trust, who to exterminate, and who left the shoe scuff on the corner of Third and Baker Street when making their escape. He knows who’s interested in him, knows who hates him, knows who needs him the most.  
And, unbeknownst to John, this is why Sherlock finds himself traipsing around 221B Baker Street more often than not. He claims he’s not leaving because there are no cases to be had; because he’s far too bored already to deal with the simpleton citizens outside; because he just. Doesn’t. Want. To.

When they first met, John thought the words “robot” and “freak” fit Sherlock nicely, as do many. Soon, the adjectives morphed in to “genius” and “ass”. Now, John looks at Sherlock, and all he sees, written in plain white letters, is “friend”; “colleague”; “flat-mate”, and, on occasion, “ass” still fits in there, somewhere between ‘colleague’ and ‘flat-mate’.  
But, mostly, “friend” is written in bolded, capital letters, screaming at John that, suddenly, somehow, Sherlock Holmes has become his best friend. Sherlock is the one who is always available, even if he doesn’t necessarily understand the seemingly random emotions that take root in John’s psyche; he is nearly the only constant thing in John’s life, which is why it’s no surprise to John to find Sherlock lounging on his bed one afternoon, his hands pressed together, with the tips of his index fingers just touching his lips.

“Sherlock, what do you think you’re doing?” John asks, fighting to hold back a sigh, but not quite restraining his eyes from rolling in an exasperated swivel. Sherlock opens his closed eyes, studying the ceiling with a renewed intensity, making sure to capture each crack, chip, and bump before turning his attention to John. It takes all of six seconds.

“I’m thinking, John. Obviously,” Sherlock mumbles, barely putting forth the effort to properly move his lips, as it may disrupt his thought process. 

“Oh, of course,” John replies, not failing to hide the sarcastic nature of his remark, “you’re thinking. But why are you doing it in my bedroom, Sherlock?”

“Sit down or leave, John, you’re putting me off.”

“Sherlock!”

“I’d prefer if you sat down, but you said most people don’t like being told what to do,” Sherlock recalls from some insignificant memory, which John himself had nearly forgotten. “So I gave you an option, as per your very own instruction.”

“You could always say please,” John grumbles, slipping off his shoes before settling on the edge of the bed. The blankets are in perfect order, still, indicating Sherlock had put extra effort in not moving, for the past who-knows-how-long, while he thought about who-knows-what. 

“Lay down, John, the bed is lopsided, with you sitting there, like that,” Sherlock suggests, shifting himself over slightly, leaving more room on the other side of the bed for John, adding on a much forgotten, “Please,” only after receiving a testing look from John. 

Nonetheless, John slowly eases himself onto the green quilt Sherlock had given him for the previous Christmas, the two men’s shoulders pressed together, due to the small nature of John’s bed. John clears his throat, habitually, shifting his torso about before simply settling it into the same position as before. 

Silence settled over the men, as John turned his head to observe Sherlock’s profile, now that his eyes are closed once again, deep in thought. Sherlock’s face, while being a familiar sight, never failed to intrigue John; the way his eyebrows creases in the middle when something peculiar occurs to him, the way his lips twitch ever so slightly when he’s speaking silently. 

“What are you thinking about, Sherlock?” John asks, blinking his eyes away from his companion, as Sherlock’s lock onto John. 

“I’m not sure.”

“What?” John exclaims, propping his head up on his elbow, wearing a shocked face. “The Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know what he’s thinking about? I better write a blog post!” John chuckles to himself as Sherlock contorts his face into a ‘don’t-you-dare’ kind of look.

“I know what I’m thinking about! I mean I don’t know what I should do about it, you idiot.”

“You’re only making this a better, you do realize,” John snorts, rolling his eyes at the exasperated genius lying on his bed. 

“I hadn’t,” Sherlock grumbles, pausing for a moment before continuing. “I’ve decided what to do.”

“What’s tha-“ John starts, but is cut off as Sherlock lifts his torso by his elbows and presses his lips against John’s in a needy, strategically planned kiss, that, though Sherlock would never admit, he is afraid will come to an end and destroy everything he’s built up with John for the past year.

John pulls himself out of Sherlock’s reach, but Sherlock happily catalogues the four seconds in which John allowed it to go on. “Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?!” John says, angrily, pushing himself off the bed and backing away.

“I think it’s fairly obvious what I was doing,” Sherlock responds, his glee seeming to seep out of him like tea from a teabag, as he realizes John is pissed. “However, your reaction is not at all what I calculated, unfortunately.” Sherlock crumples his eyebrows and pulls his knees up, ever so slightly wrapping himself into a ball on the bed that, Sherlock can’t help but notice, smells of the essence of John. He takes in a deep breath, loving it.

“Sherlock, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not gay,” John snaps, running his hands through his hair as he paces about in confused circles. Confused because why would Sherlock do something so stupid and just why did John like it so much. “I’m going out.”

“Out where?” Sherlock asks, trying to sound nonchalant, but, inside, he feels a frighteningly unfamiliar ball of worry wring his stomach, that seems to be screaming, “What if John leaves and never comes back?”

“Just out, Sherlock,” John nearly yells as he stomps out of the flat, into the snowy street below, leaving Sherlock alone. Rationally, Sherlock knows he is no more alone than he has been most of his life, but this emptiness in the flat feels strange, as if something horrible has happened.

Sherlock realizes the “horrible something” is him.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

John pauses at the door to 221B Baker Street, leaning his somehow simultaneously cold and sweating forehead against the smooth wood, not feeling any clearer about what he should do when he sees Sherlock again.  
Meanwhile, upstairs, Sherlock rouses himself from John’s bed. He tried to sleep, to forget John, to stop replaying the perfectly memorized scene over in his mind. 

Tried, but failed. 

He spent the past two hours lying awake, trying to close himself off from his emotions once again, but the gnawing feeling just wouldn’t leave his stomach alone.

Sherlock drags his feet along the rug, trailing his fingers along the back of John’s armchair, before pushing the door to his bedroom open and falling into his own bed, as he hears John stomp up the stairs. John can’t help but feel angry still; angry at himself, angry at Sherlock, simply angry at his anger.

He loudly ignores the flat, kicking off his shoes and changing into his flannel pajama pants before crawling into his bed. He grumbles as he attempts to curl into a ball on the strikingly cold half of the bed. 

He huffs, using the guise of adjusting his pillows to slide into the spot on the bed, where Sherlock’s warmth had leaked through the layers, warming John’s chilled skin, and, for the moment, calming his nerves as he lolls off into a fitful sleep.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Violin pours through the apartment, awakening John from his slumber. He buries his face further into the pillow, desperately grasping at the rapidly disappearing dreams, remembering only a few snippets of Sherlock and a need for something.  
After a few moments, John gives up on his dreams and, instead, returns his focus to Sherlock, suddenly feeling his lips pressed against Sherlock’s, imagining the way Sherlock’s slender fingers would feel wrapped in his hair. 

The violin suddenly stops in a sharp note, startling John into full consciousness. He shakes his head, trying to clear the final moments of his odd fantasy from his mind before slipping on his favorite sweater (a striped gift from Sherlock on John’s birthday) and his jeans from the day before. One deep breath in, and John pulls open the door before he loses the confidence, stumbling into the living room, brightly lit with midmorning sun. 

Sherlock is suddenly rigid on the couch, carefully calculating John’s plan of action, swiftly ruling out John moving out, to live with someone like Sarah, as an option. Instead, John smiles weakly before sidling into the kitchen, congratulating himself on not panicking and running away, like usual; although, to be fair, he is standing in the kitchen, alone. 

Sherlock calmly watches him walk away, admiring how he holds himself in such strict composure, despite, Sherlock imagines, having “a million things” racing about his head, as John would say, before standing once again to play his favorite tune on the violin, crossing the room to stare blankly out the window. Suddenly, Sherlock is aware his mind is quiet. Everything is silent, no deductions are making themselves, no plans are being formulated, nothing is happening. Nothing, that is, except for every miniscule detail Sherlock can remember about John. When he comes to the end of the list, it loops back to the beginning, lingering perhaps too long on the memories of John only half dressed and freshly showered, searching madly for that blasted sweater Sherlock gave him.

John busies himself in the kitchen, purposefully avoiding any vantage point that includes Sherlock in an attempt to pretend nothing is wrong, that Sherlock didn’t change everything yesterday. However, in such a small kitchen, one can only avoid the doorway for so long, and John can’t help but glance at Sherlock as he crosses the room, admiring the way he dips and sways his slim torso in time with the music. John shakes his head as he looks away, scolding himself silently.

Mrs. Hudson climbs up the stairs, and Sherlock hears her groaning from the bottom all the way to the top. “Sherlock! John!” she cries, pushing open the door to find the apartment frozen over in an icy silence. “Is something the matter, boys?” 

Her face suddenly looks ashen, terrified of what possibilities there are. “Everything is perfectly fine, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock announces, suddenly, in the voice he uses when overtly pretending to be happy. 

John notices.

He notices the pretend in Sherlock’s voice, which can only mean one thing. 

Sherlock is terrified.

John probes these realizations in his mind, knowing that, somehow, he has caused them. He has hurt Sherlock; and, this realization, is the one that sends John reeling. His stomach feels as if it’s on the verge of bringing back his small breakfast, his throat seems to be closing around all the words he suddenly needs to say. John shakes his head, trying to clear it, before tuning into the babble of Mrs. Hudson’s voice, watching Sherlock as his features ooze faux interest over her story. Turning around on his heel, John pretends to look in the fridge, absentmindedly, before announcing, “Sherlock, I’m going to pop down to the store; we’re out of milk.”

John knows that’s complete bullshit.

Sherlock knows that’s complete bullshit.

But John does it anyway, slipping down the stairs, away from Mrs. Hudson, away from Sherlock, away from all the confusing emotions, even if it’s just for a few moments. The cool air seems to whip some sense back into John’s mind, as he repeats the mantra, “I’m not gay. I’m not gay. I’m not gay,” until he’s forgotten how to think anything else.  
When he stomps up the stairs fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Hudson is gone, and John drops the milk on the table before wordlessly slipping back into his room, before Sherlock can try to “fix” this in his own, Sherlock-ian way. 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sherlock watches John as he flies from the door, to the kitchen, to his room, desperate to get away from Sherlock. He plays a few feeble notes on the violin before giving up and letting it drop to the floor, curling into a ball on the couch. 

He wishes that he hadn’t foolishly tried to kiss John.

No, he wishes John had kissed him back.

He wishes all sorts of things as his ocean of, usually, ignored emotions thrashes about in his mind, raging against the walls of his skull, warring with each other to escape first. Sherlock’s stomach feels tight, so he curls into a tighter ball, trying to block out everything that reminds him of John, trying to will the feeling of desire that wells up inside of him every single time he looks at John. 

He needs to do something, anything to keep his mind of John for ten seconds, that’s all. He’s spent the last sixteen hours fretting about John, angry at himself, and worrying about the future, terrified of the possibility of 221B without John, terrified of solving cases without his trusty sidekick, terrified of knowing that no one cares for him. 

Although, he knows that no one cares for him right now, anyway. 

Sherlock shakes his head, hoping the feelings will just slide out his hearing canals, or something equally ridiculous, and leave him in peace. He wraps his fingers in his hair, considering pulling on it for good measure, but is stopped by another pair of hands mingling with his. 

“Don’t do that,” John whispers, kneeling beside the couch to look at Sherlock more evenly. 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say, so, for once, he doesn’t say anything. 

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” John murmurs, slowly working Sherlock’s tensed fingers out of his curls, trying to be as gentle as possible. “Hmm? Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me how to fix it.”

“Even you aren’t that daft, John,” Sherlock whimpers despite his best efforts to distance himself from his emotions again. “You know what’s wrong.”

“But how do I fix it?”

John stills, resting his palm on Sherlock’s face, feeling the warm skin move under his fingers as Sherlock tries to escape his unattainable touch. 

Sherlock shrugs.

“I think I know how,” John whispers, leaning down to press a small, warm kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, eliciting a small gasp from him. 

“John,” Sherlock says, more like a question than a reprimand. “John, you don’t ha-“

John ignores Sherlock’s words and covers Sherlock’s mouth with his once again, being rewarded with Sherlock’s hands releasing his own hair, only to be filled with John’s moments later. Sherlock opens his mouth to John, gasping into John’s lips as John nips lightly at Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John murmurs, pushing at Sherlock’s unruly curls as he plants another kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock realizes John’s eyes are leaking small tears, as if he’s trying his hardest to keep them back. “John,” Sherlock accepts the apology. “John, it’s okay.” Sherlock sits up, only to slide off the couch and join John on the carpet. He pulls John’s head to rest on his shoulder, letting him cry softly for a moment as he releases all his nerves onto Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock fiddles with the collar of John’s sweater, feeling the soft yarn under his fingers before moving just slightly to brush his fingers against John’s neck, making a shushing noise into John’s hair. 

They sit like this for quite a while, John basking in the essence of Sherlock; Sherlock reveling in the closeness of John. Neither of them knows quite how to proceed with this newfound mutual attraction, but both of them know it feels like a weight has lifted from the apartment. 

John rubs his nose against Sherlock’s neck, making a final apology in the form a small kiss to the crook, before murmuring, “I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock grins into Jon’s hair before replying, “I love you, too, John Watson, and I’ve never been less sorry in my life.”

They both remain silent for a while longer, saying everything the other needs to hear without any words

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, AO3! This is my first Johnlock fanfic that I've ever written. Ever. So, please leave me feedback, and I'll love you forever. I've also started a new Johnlock blog on tumblr (johnlockgivesmewings.tumblr.com), if anyone cares.. No one? Okay. Thanks for reading! :)


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